


This City of Bones and Teeth

by TheSleepingKnight



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Gen, Major AU, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Worm AU, Worm OC's, fuck nazis, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23996719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepingKnight/pseuds/TheSleepingKnight
Summary: They were like night and day. Quite literally.Perhaps that's why they became such good friends.
Relationships: OC/Annette Hebert
Comments: 25
Kudos: 97





	1. The Beginning

Ange realizes that she’s going to die a few minutes into the fight. Hookwolf alone, she could have taken. Maybe. Krieg was a problem, but one she could have worked around, given time. Cricket was annoying, but manageable. Alabaster was in the same boat.

But all of them? At once? She’s a badass, but not _that_ much of a badass.

And then there are all of the guys with guns who filled the rest of the warehouse, popping shots the moment she managed to get some distance from the assortment of _fucking nazis._ They had already drained her charge more then she would have liked— she’s practically running on fumes at this point— one or two more hits from Hookwolf or a few more clips would render her mortal. She doesn’t see a way to win.

She decides to keep fighting anyway, because _fuck these guys._ If she’s going down, she is sure as shit taking them with her.

She distantly recalls something Annette had read once. A ... sonnet? Something about fire and death and blaze of glory.

Maybe she’ll get into a story. That’d be nice.

She charges, solar fire flaring from her wings. Hookwolf meets her in an explosion of sparks.

She spins, swinging her plasma sword to chop the knife out of the air, twisting with her momentum to slice one of Hookwolf’s limbs off, desperately diving away from Krieg’s haymaker only to walk into a bullet, flinching as it smacked into her face. Her powers protect her from harm, but she can’t stop the instinctual reaction of something metal slamming into her, and it costs her a punch from Alabaster.

She roars and spins, kicking at the Nazi and charging at the gunman, ducking bullets and trying to carve through gunmetal, only to find herself stumbling to her knees as Cricket’s scream robs her of her balance, nausea swelling as vertigo assaults her senses. She can’t get up, can't _move, s_ he's going to _die—  
_

The lights go out. For a second, she wonders if that’s what happens when you shuffle off the mortal coil: God just switches off the lights in whatever room you're in to deliver the bad news. 

But then she hears the tale-tell sound of smoke hissing from a cartridge, and the Nazis begin yelling at each other, and she realizes that she’s not dead yet, and her glow is giving away her position, _move—_

The screaming starts, and the gunfire begins again, but this time she’s not the target. No, the target is invisible in the darkness and the gas, but muzzle flares cast shadows, and those shadows are methodically moving from gunman to gunman, the sound of breaking bones filling the air, punctuated by howls of pain. Ange has no idea what the _fuck_ is happening but the sounds of Nazis screaming in terror is _viciously_ satisfying. She manages to get to the center of the warehouse, doing her best to avoid any stray fire when Krieg _roars,_ the smoke scattering, and she finds herself standing beside a living shadow.

His cloak looks like it was woven from the torn wing of a raven, dark as the night. A hood with dark purple innards highlights a helmet with narrow, angry white lenses. Beneath the cloak is body armor, and high-quality stuff at that. Another splash of color is his insignia: a _V_ that stretches his chest. His armored hands are flecked with blood, and he’s holding some kind of feather-shaped throwing knives.

In all— aesthetics scored him an eight out of ten, and she’ll give him an honorary nine for the save.

It’s just the capes left, now. The rest of the nazis have all been taken down, unconscious goons and disassembled guns littering the floor. The remaining E88 members themselves look more than a little put out at that fact. She’s facing Krieg and Hookwolf, while her feathered friend is staring down the other two.

 _“Leave Cricket and Alabaster to me._ ” He growls, voice made from gravel and grinding stones, with a hint of an electronic edge— a voice modulator. Man, he was really committed to the whole _spookem_ routine, wasn’t he? “ _Can you handle the other two?_ ”

“Running a little low on juice.” She mutters. “But I’ll try.” He nods, and his hands go to his belt, and he tosses down some kind of capsule that explodes with _light,_ and that is _exactly_ what she needed, her reserves shooting back up.

“Okay.” She grins beneath her helmet, bringing up her sword. “I like you. Gotta name?”  
  
“ _Valravn. Now, **move**._” And then he charges Cricket and Alabaster, liquid darkness, limbs and knives flashing out with inhuman speed. She turns to face her own opponents, lifting into the air.

“Okay, assholes.” She flairs her wings. “Round two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to this very personal new project of mine: a duel OC fic, featuring Ange, a solar-powered cape who's the creation of a dear friend, and Valravn, my own spookem boy. This AU is gonna be told through a series of little oneshots and snippets, as well as my friend Hanky's most wonderful art. 
> 
> Check out said art here: https://ieatedanimation.tumblr.com/tagged/bones-and-teeth
> 
> Enjoy!


	2. a midnight rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He really shouldn't have called her.

His first thought upon Guardian arriving is that this is a _terrible_ idea. He’s been tracking a serial killer and his string of murders across Brockton, and it inevitably led into the Teeth’s territory. Because that’s always where the desperate criminals went. Straight into the arms of the Butcher. 

You _didn’t_ go into Teeth's territory without backup. Not unless you were Alexandria or you were looking for a very messy way to kill yourself.

Valravn didn’t want to call the local PRT— he couldn’t ask them to risk their lives for something that technically wasn’t their job: after all, he had no reason to believe that the murderer was a cape. Besides, they probably would have told him to hand it over to the police and walk back with them to HQ because he’d be dead in a month if he didn’t. Like he hadn’t been doing this for two years.

(He’ll be dead in three weeks, probably.) So, that really only left him with one option.

Guardian.

The woman was...well, pretty much everything he wasn’t. Personable, outgoing, emotive. Pretty much the polar opposite kind of person. Even her powers stood starkly opposed to his— some kind of light-based brute, with the aesthetics of an angel to boot. He had to wonder how well _that_ idea had been thought out. Angels really only got associated with one being nowadays, and _she_ was anything but divine.

Still. He respected Guardian, even if she could be a bit...well, theatrical. (Not that he had any stones to throw in that department.) For example, landing on the roof glowing like a goddamn beacon, giving away their location for miles, with bright white robes and literally blazing wings.

“Sup Val!” She greets him with a jaunty wave, and he can clearly picture a smile beneath her hockey mask. “How’d you even get my number?” He’d cloned her cellphone— an underhanded move, but he’d wanted to be able to get back in contact with her, just in case. Still, she really shouldn’t keep her personal one on her cape costume. Someone less scrupulous than him might do more than just write her number down. He turned and pointed at the ruined collection of buildings that made up the Dead Zone.

“That’s where we’re going.”

“...Please tell me you’re not planning on going after the Butcher.”

“Not tonight.” Valravn assures her. He hadn’t worked out a plan for taking down the mad cape that didn’t result in massive property damage or unacceptable casualties. Guardian just crossed her arms and somehow managed to radiate the emotional equivalent of a raised eyebrow. “I’m looking for a man by the name of Hobbs Calvin. He’s hiding out inside the Dead Zone, but I doubt he’s actually tried to join the Teeth. Too cowardly, and the Butcher herself doesn’t respect the kind of killing he’s done. So long as we’re careful, we shouldn't even run into any gang members.”

“Why are you looking for him?” Cold, stiff faces float to the forefront of his mind. He'd spent hours, sneaking into the morgue, looking at the autopsies. What had been done to them had been violet and it had not been short-Hobbs had taken his time with all of them. 

“He’s murdered seven women, now.” He does his best to meet the other cape’s eyes. “I won’t let there be an eighth.”

“...where is the psychotic son of a bitch?” Guardian said, aura flaring slightly.

Yeah. There’s no way a stealth mission would fly with her around. Heh, fly. He really needed to get a sense of humor, one of these days. 

“I’m not entirely sure.” He lies. “All I know is that he’s on the outskirts. I just need you to be on standby in case something goes wrong and I need a quick get away. Or possibly a building dropped.”

“I can do both.” Guardian affirms. “...how long is this gonna take?”

“Possibly all night.” Valravn admits. “Why, you have something better to do?”

“Nah, I gotta english lit paper due tomorrow.” She sighs deeply. “The class is hard but my professor is _hot_ so it makes up for it.” And that’s when he freezes.

He had a english lit paper due tomorrow as well. He’d heard a particular student talking about how hot professor Annette was in the halls. Quite often. It had been honestly pretty embarrassing fro everyone in earshot. 

In fact, she sat at the desk next to his and poked him whenever he collapsed during a lecture.

In fact, she’d helped him with homework when he’d completely blanked on an assignment.

In fact, he knew her name.

Ange Kostramas.

...fuck. 

Instead of responding to her, he just jumps off the roof.

A few hours later, he has Hobbs Calvin tied up and waiting for a jail cell to call home. And if he broke a few more bones than strictly necessary, well… he won’t lose any sleep about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. 
> 
> Also, more of the AU is revealed: The S9 didn't betray the Teeth in this timeline, and as such, the map of Brockton Bay and it's gangs have been pretty severely changed. The Dead Zone is the name for the Teeth's territory, aptly chosen: it looks less like part of a city and more like something dragged out of a post-apocalypse movie. The Butcher herself lives in the heart of it, and rarely emerges, save to give the city a reminder of who exactly she is.


	3. A Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ange goes on a date and walks away with something a lot cooler then a boyfriend.

Ange really didn’t expect _Patrick Dullahan_ of all people to ask her out for coffee. Not even as a date (she’s made her interests probably clearer than she should have), just as friends but _still._ This is the most he’s talked to her outside of classwork and such. In fact...she doesn’t remember him really talking to _anyone._

She really wishes that she didn’t have any lingering anxiety about what _exactly_ was going on. The “quiet kid” stigma is dumb and stupid and she shouldn’t pay it any attention but _fuck_ she’s still got pre-emptive sparks of cold worry going down her spine when he arrives at the coffeeshop.

Her first thought is that he looks tired. Even more so than usual— the bags under his eyes far out-reach hers, and she’d been up all night doing homework and then helping Valravn with his murder case.

Which she still wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about. The other cape was fucking cool, no doubt about that, and she owed him for saving her life, but the crazy bastard had _jumped off the fucking roof_ without any warning, and then showed up a few hours later with a man who’s fingers definitely shouldn’t have been bending that way and just—

Ugh. Her life is a goddamn mess.

He sits down in front of her, expression sharp despite his clear exhaustion.

“Hey, Pat.” She greets.

“Hey.” He returns. “You picked a corner booth.”

“Um. Yeah?”

“It’s smart.” He keeps going. “From here, you can see every exit in this place. All of the windows, all of the doors. And if anything goes wrong, _I_ have no way of getting out of here easily.”

What the fuck. Oh god. What’s going on. Patrick seems to notice her distress, and sighs heavily, putting a hand in his face. “I'm doing this all wrong.” He grumbles. “Sorry. My filter’s slipping. Long night.”

“Uh-uh.” She says. “Not to be rude but you have till my latte arrives to explain what the fuck is going on.”

He drops his hand, and just...stares at her. Right in the eyes. And there’s something strangely _sad_ about that gaze, like he’s looking straight past her and seeing something else play out.

“I’m Valravn.” He says.

And uh. She really doesn’t know how to process that. Her latte arrives, and the world’s rotaion surely just skipped a little bit because _what in the fuck?_

“Oh.” She swallows. “Okay?”

He sighs again, and slowly reaches into his pocket, takes out a note. Slides it across the desk. She picks it up, and written on it are the only three words that could have possibly shaken her even more.

_You are Guardian._

She slides the note back. He promptly rips it up, rolls the pieces around, and drops them in his backpack.

“Thought you’d appreciate the— the extra precaution.” he says, and holy shit, this is his idea of a _peace offering._ “Can’t be too careful, right?”

“You’re fucking Val—” she takes a deep breath. Suddenly, his tired disposition makes _too_ much sense. As much as part of her wants to get up, dismiss this as a bad prank, she really, really can’t because it just? Fits? The… _everything_ about him. “Okay. Back up. How did you even figure it out?”

“I wasn’t trying to find out.” He says. “I promise. You mentioned Annette last night, and...well. The pieces slid into place.”

Oh my god. Of course it did. Fuck her entire life.

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath, trying to force her heart to go slower. “Okay. So as mortally embarrassed as I am… why reveal yourself to me?”

He rubs the back of his neck, clearly flustered. “...You’re a good one.” He says. “You care. You’re strong. You’re helping people. I… admire you. You can do things that I can’t. Inspire people in a way I can’t. You’ve only been on the cape scene for a few months and yet the city loves you. And I...liked someone having my back last night. And I was hoping— if you wanted to of course— that we could continue that partnership.”

“...are you asking to form a _team?_ ”

“Yeah— or rather, be on speed-dial for each other. You can still do solo patrols, I definitely still will, but just… work together. Often. If that’s okay with you.”

Ange leans back into her booth and _thinks._ Thinks about all of the close calls, the nights where she’d just narrowly dodged a bullet or avoided a punch that would have caved her skull in. She thinks about all of those times where she’d arrived a little too late, because she hadn’t been able to find the victim fast enough, and all that’d been left to do was punish the perpetrator.

And she thinks about how Valravn was clearly _good_ at this thing. How he’d been active as an _independent_ in _Brockton Bay_ for nearly two years. Thinks about how fast he’d found that serial killer last night, one that she hadn’t even known existed. She thinks about being able to finally make a solid difference.

When she thinks about it all, there’s really only one answer.

“Yes.” She says, staring him dead in the eye. “I’m in.”

She finally sees him smile.

It’s a good one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, Pat, why can't you just ask this girl to become part of your crime fighting team like a normal person.


	4. and they were partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ange has a way of surprising him.

Patrick had really no expectations— scratch that. He had lots of expectations about how his partnership with Guardian would go down.

She blew them all out of the water within the first few hours.

* * *

He’s already dreading the hour and twenty minutes of class, and looking at Ange (who is of course staring at him) only makes it worse. He’s still surprised she said _yes,_ after he fumbled his speech so badly (and sounded like a total creep in the process. Jesus. What is _wrong_ with him?) He sits down at his desk, determined not to make a scene.

“Hey, Pat. How’d your night go?” Fuck. He’d have to settle for talking quietly.

“Fine, I guess. Late night, but that’s...normal.” He shifts in his seat. “...yours?”

“Same. We may or may not have kicked the hornet's nest.” Her face goes sharp and dark. “ _Purity_ is back with the E88.” That’s...bad. Purity is arguably their heaviest hitter— she could level buildings with a wave of her hand. He’d heard rumors that she’d gone back to her old gang, but hadn’t had a chance to confirm it. Shit. After their first meeting, he and Ange had managed to keep Cricket and Alabaster secure, but Hookwolf and Krieg had eventually cut and run, and neither of them wanted to be lured into a second ambush. He’d hoped that the encounter would mean less activity, but Purity was easily worth the two capes they’d lost.

“I’ll begin working on some countermeasures.” He promises. “Can’t guarantee effectiveness against _her,_ but it’ll be better than nothing.”

“Oh yeah, I wanted to ask about your, well. You know. _Owers_. Not here, of course, but I wanna know what you can do.” Ange says. 

“Of course." Pat nods. "Oh, before I forget—” He digs into his pack, pulls out a sheet of paper. “I need you to fill this out.”

“Uhhhhh okay. Why?” She takes it, gingerly, as if he’d somehow managed to sneak some kind of accelerant onto the paper. Which was ridiculous. He’d need to coat her fingers in a reactionary chemical for that to work.

“Just do it. I’ll explain later.”

She frowns, and looks at the sheet of paper. Slowly, one eyebrow quirks up, and she just _stares_ at him. He flushes, despite his best efforts.

“I want to make you a new suit.” He grumbles under his breath. Fortunately, no one seems to be paying attention to them. “Obviously I need to know a few things.”

“...right.” She tucks it away. “So! What kind of music do you like?”

“What?” He blinks. What did that have to do with anything?

“Well we can’t really talk about _it_ here, and if we’re going to be...working together, then we might as well try to get to know each other, right?” She gives him a grin, and he...well, can’t really argue with that. Knowing each other better (is dangerous, don’t say anything she might find out) would help them work better in the field. “Annette’s running late today anyway, might as well play twenty questions.”

“...Fine. Um. I...don’t like metal. Or country. Or hard rock. I mostly listen to softer stuff.”

“Why’s that?”

“Easier to work with in the background. That was two questions. Um… favorite book?” They carry on until a frazzled looking Professor Hebert arrives, and Ange immediately focuses on her.

Pat didn’t pretend to understand _that,_ but it wasn’t any of his business anyway. Besides. He has other things to work on.

...what was the homework, again?

* * *

  * 5:04pm _**Ange** : Hey, Pat. Where we meeting up. _
  * 5:05pm _My place. Here’s my address._
  * 5:05pm _**Ange** : Wow you move fast doncha_
  * 5:10pm _I’m not interested, I assure you. Plus I doubt I could compete with Professor Hebert._
  * 5:10pm _**Ange** : WOW OKAY THEN_



* * *

The knock on his door is unexpected enough that he nearly slices his finger off with the needle of the sewing machine. “Who is it?” He yells, switching off the device.

“Who do you think!” Ange’s voice carries clear through the door. He gets up, wincing as his knees protest- he’d been sitting in that chair for hours, and the fact that he’d landed _hard_ on the roof the other night didn’t help, he needed better shock absorbers— he opens the door to a rather dazzled looking Ange.

“ _This_ is where you live?” She steps in, glancing around. “God, my apartment looks so sad compared to this.” Pat rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. Honestly, he would have _preferred_ a smaller place, but his dad had insisted. Wanted room for him to keep all of his training gear. And of course, price hadn’t been an issue.

_You’ll pay me back when you take over the company, son._

“Oh my god, is that a _sewing machine?_ You _sew?_ ” He blinks back to the present to see Ange's face alight with a wicked version of delight by the information.

“Have to.” He swallows. “Can’t really order a costume online, right?”

“I mean, I did. Sort of.” Ange comments.

“Yours is literally a hockey mask and white cloth strapped over a black bodysuit. DIY, and not the good kind.”

“Hey, it works! And it looks _fine,_ thank you very much.” She sniffs in clear faux-offense.

“How much money have you blown having to repair it?”

“...it’s not like I can afford more durable materials.” Ange grumbles, expression shifting to true embarrassment. “I’m still trying to meet basic ends as is.”

He shouldn’t have said anything. Damn it all. He hadn’t meant to… Why was this so _hard?_ “...Anyway.” He mumbles. “I’m working on yours right now. Should be done in a few hours.”

“So you _are_ a Tinker, then?” Ange asks. He nods. “Yeah, Tinker and thinker, based around creating suits with specific themes, and whatever tech I make feeds into that.”

“Can you build power armor?” …Why was _that_ her first question? It’s not like _she_ needed any.

“...kind of? Nothing crazy. It has to be wearable, after all, and there’s a limit to how much I can stuff in one suit before the weight becomes unacceptable, or the battery becomes unable to support anything.” He’d tried building an invisibility function. It had _worked,_ but it drained so much power that he’d nearly gotten trapped in a dead suit inside a Teeth hideout. He wasn’t eager to try his luck again.

“Aw, man.” She pouts. “And here I was, hoping you could attach a machine gun to my shoulder.”

“...you don’t even need that.”

“But it would look awesome!”

“Wouldn’t it throw you off-balance while flying?” He asks. She sticks her tongue out at him in response.

“You’re no fun at all.” She crashes down on a sofa, and he gets back to sewing. “So how is this gonna work? The two of us. Being partners.”

“Like before, but now we’re working together.”

“Smartass. I meant, like— do you have any rules, I guess? Preferences?”

“I’m not into girls, don’t worry.”

“Dudes?” She asks, voice appropriately cautious. He shakes his head.

“Not into them either.”

“Jeeze, you really are the loner stereotype.”

“I’m not—” No real friends, doesn’t hang out with anyone, weird hobbies, stays up late at night dressed in a costume. “Fuck.” Ange laughs at his misfortune, and he scowls at her. It wasn't like he was _trying_ to be that guy. He was just— school was for working, not for fun, and it’s not like he didn’t have a job that took up any hours not spent on classes. Besides. What was the point of having friends if he couldn't even share the most important part of his life with them? It-- it's easier not to try. 

“Don’t worry, Pat. You have me now.”

“Oh, we’re friends now?” 

“We better be, if we’re gonna fight crime together.”

“Hm. Fair enough. Pass me the solder.” He needed to redo some circuitry in for the solar panels.

“The fucking _what—”_

* * *

“Oh my god, it looks so fucking _cool!”_ Ange spun around, reveling in the sight of herself in the mirror. “How did you even _do_ this?”

“Lots of time spent studying your old costume and style.” Designing the white accent fabrics in such a way that it would still resist wear and tear but still come off if attempted to be grabbed was the hardest part. “The black bodysuit is made from a kevlar weave, and I integrated solar panels into the mesh, so now you can store up sunlight. There’s a button on your belt that activates it. Should keep you from running out of power at night. Helmet now has an armor and fingerprint magnetic lock, so no one will be able to yank it off of you.”

“Holy shit.” She tests it out, and the mechanism works perfectly, unlatching and popping off without a hiss. “ _Thank you,_ Pat. This is…how much do I owe you for this?”

_You’ll pay me back when you take over the company, son._

“You can pay me back by rounding up more Nazi’s.” He says, glancing out the window. Nearly sundown. He had time for a quick tune up. “Speaking off, we should start getting ready for patrol.”

“Sweet!” She spins, and then goes very still. “Uh, where’s the—”

“Down the hall, on your left.”

“Thanks!” He makes sure that she leaves the room before turning back to his computer, finishing up the coding for the final fail-safe. The panels in her suit would absorb sunlight. However, the process that exposed her to the stored power could now be interrupted remotely by a trigger on his belt. One push, and her power supply would be cut off and prevent her from absorbing sunlight naturally, as long as she was wearing the suit.

He liked Ange. She was a good person. Better than him, probably. Clearly determined to be a hero, and as far as he could tell, that had no reason to change any time soon. But masters and their ilk existed, and you could never be too careful.

He closes the computer and goes to put on his own suit.

Maybe after he captured a few gang members, he’d stop feeling so guilty.

* * *

“So. Now what?” They’re on Pat’s roof, overlooking the suburbs. Not exactly a skyscraper to survey the city from, but

“How do you usually find crime?” Pat asks, genuinely curious.

“What, like it’s _hard_ in this city?” Point. “I just fly around until I hear gunfire or screaming.” Ange sighs. “It’s hard, though. I glow, and most of the time a few manage to slip away. You?”

“I’m tapped into the police scanners. And the PRT radios as well.”

“Fuckin _sick._ Do they know?”

“Of course not. I know what I’m doing. Throw me.”

“What?”

“Into the air. Normally I’d have to grapple until I found a high enough vantage point but…”

“Ooohh, I get it. Going up!”

She grabs him firmly by the shoulders, and he experiences something that he’s really never felt before: the sensation of being _lifted_ by another human being into the air, suspended by a force he could only guess at. They climb higher, and higher, and higher, until they’ve started to reach the point where the skyscrapers in the distance don’t look too tall at all, and then with a small swing, she _throws_ him through the air. He lets himself soar for a moment, letting the howling wind scrape away all fear and doubt from his body. And then he activates the electrical charge, and his cape goes rigid, and he tenses as his rocketing glide turns into something far more gentle and controllable. Guardian swiftly joins him later as they sail towards the heart of Brockton.

“This is my favorite part.” She says, her voice carrying clear across the radios in their helmets.

“Mine too.” He agrees. They let the instant of peace stretch out into a minute, simply admiring the freedom of flight.

The feeling that they can truly escape.

And then his suit’s internal systems flash him a warning.

“We have a break-in on 51st and 30th. Teeth colors.” And then they dive back down to earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are huge dorks.


	5. Notebooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ange makes lists.

This is Ange’s To-Do-List: there are many lists like it, but this one is hers.

  * Wake Up at 7:30! Gotta have enough time to eat.
  * Go to Lit Class at 9:30
  * Flirt/w prof. Essential step!!!
  * Wake up Pat even thou he needs sleep :C
  * Get lunch, something filling cause-
  * Go to Classes that don’t have hot profs at 1:50
  * Get Home at 5:30 finally!!!
  * Do Homework (you better! Can’t flirt with Annette if you’re failing)
  * Eat Dinner not a lot thou cause-
  * Go on Patrol 9pm-2am (hopefully)
  * Make Sure Pat Sleeps (he is stubborn little bastard who tries to keep working >:C)
  * Sleep



Yes. It’s a very good list.

* * *

Classical Lit is a fun class, no doubt. And Annette makes it even more interesting, but there’s not exactly a lot of opportunities to test her amazing lines during class, and she’s already answered more than enough questions today, so she’s gotta find _something_ to keep her entertained. Fortunately, Pat sits next to her, and is fast asleep at his desk. And really, what is she to do but ruthlessly take advantage of his exhaustion for her own amusement?

She takes out the first book she grabs from her backpack (a hefty chemistry textbook that had cost way too much) and as nonchalantly (did anyone ever do anything _chalantly_? She should ask Annette) as she could, balances it on Pat’s head. He continued to sleep (and really, it was amazing how much softer his face became when he wasn’t awake.) Ange took this as a sign to continue her just and holy mission, and continued to stack whatever she could get her hands on.

By the end of the class, Pat had: two books, a water bottle, a few pens, notebooks, and a calculator. Professor Hebert is giving her a look that’s bemusement mixed with disapproval, but Ange flashes her a winning smile (and her notes) and the graceful woman lets it slide. She even allows Ange to take a photo, and really, Annette is just _the best_ prof she’s ever had _._ It’s almost a shame that Ange’s in love with her. When the clock runs down and signals freedom, she pokes Pat in the cheek with a pencil. Vivid green snaps open, and his head visibly twitches, rattling the items but somehow not collapsing them. His face becomes a slideshow, flickering between frames of confusion, identification, more confusion, realization, and finally ending on a drawn out shot of _annoyance._

“Ange.” He says, tone still but drier than a sandbank on a hot summer morning, “What did you do.” It’s a demand, not a question. She can’t help but laugh.

“Why do you assume I did anything?”

“No one else would take the time to fuck with me like this.” He reaches up with a trained grace, deftly removing the items, delicately extricating the water bottle first, and then sliding all of her books off, to which Ange gives him a faux-pout. She had been looking forward to a great clatter and curses. “...wanna get lunch?” He asks, this time becoming a film projector of nervousness and uncertainty. For a moment, she lets herself be amazed at the sheer divide between Valravn, the cape who she’d seen dive into combat without blinking and issue battlefield commands like he’d been born wearing stripes, and Patrick Dullahan, the quiet, shy kid who was so alone that he wasn’t even sure that an offer to eat together wouldn’t somehow ruin their tentative friendship.

Then she grins and accepts, but—

“Ange, a word?”

Uh-oh. She waves on Pat and turns to face Professor Hebert, and it’s just not _fair,_ how composed and elegant she looks in so simple a get-up. Long lashes and sweaters mixed with dress pants somehow melts her heart.

“Something the matter, Professor?” She desperately wants to throw a line out, see what reaction it catches, but holds back. She doesn’t think she’s in trouble, but no sense in pushing it. Still, she can’t resist wrapping the word _professor_ in a tone that isn’t _entirely_ professional.

“No.” Annette has still got the hints of a smile tugging up her lips. “Just letting you know that while I let today slide, it won’t in the future. I’ve already bent the rules by allowing Pat to doze during class. Don’t make me wake him up, understand?”

“Of course, Professor. Won’t happen again.” She promises. Annette nods, and then, just as Ange’s about to leave:

“If you don’t mind my questioning: have you two become friends?”

She so _desperately_ wants to say _well, we beat up nazis and serial killers together, so yeah, we’re tight,_ but Pat had already given her a small totally-not-lecture on keeping their identities safe, so she merely opts to nod. Professor Hebert looks visibly relieved.

“Good.” The woman murmurs. “He doesn’t seem to have many of those.”

No, he doesn’t (and Ange won’t pretend it doesn’t worry her, the sheer lack of _anyone_ in Pat’s life. She may or may not have peeked at his contacts while entering her number more officially into his phone, and noticed an absence of other names. She’d tried calling the other numbers, only to find suppliers or disconnected lines.)

“You know me, Professor. I’m always eager to pick up strays.”

“Are you now?” And is there just a hint of coquettishness in that tone? A flash of something warm in her lovely brown irises? Is there anything in there at all to imply? “Well, don’t keep him waiting.” And then the moment is gone, and Ange walks out with her chest all tied up in knots, knowing she’ll never stop looking for anything more in Annette’s eyes.

She really wishes someone had told her how much it would hurt to want something you couldn’t have.

* * *

“Five, six, seven-eight!”

Fortunately, Pat had ways of working out feelings that were proving to be highly effective.

“Again. One, two, three-four, five, six, seven-eight!”

Pat had offered, after a few weeks of working together, to train her in his mystical ways of kung-fu (although apparently it isn’t exactly kung-fu, he’d said a lot of other names she’d only half paid attention to) and, like. Come on. She’s not slouch in the firepower department, but she’s _seen_ him fight, weaving in-between gunfire and knives and bodies alike, striking so fast she sometimes wondered if he really _didn’t_ have some kind of mover power. The only possible answer is _yes_.

“You’re learning fast.” he says, allowing her to grab a water bottle. “We’ll go over the basic moves for a while, and once you get them locked into muscle memory, move onto more advanced disarms and throws.”

“No fancy flip kicks?” Ange asks, even though she can only imagine the amount of work required to pull off some of the more acrobatic stunts she’d seen him perform.

“You can fly.” He deadpans.

“Isn’t the whole point of this is to teach me how to protect myself if my shield is down?”

“Yeah, protect and buy time for you to get it back up. If I was gonna put you through the full training regiment, I’d need you to stop going on patrol for at least a year. We’re just gonna focus on deflections, throws, and disarming. Nothing too complicated. I want you to be able to use these as soon as possible, just in case.”

“Doesn’t the suit prevent me from running out of power?” She’s not _complaining_ about the training, per say. Okay, maybe a little, but really she’s just poking holes for the sake of it. (And maybe she wants to dig a little and see what he’s thinking. When he’s focused, he goes cold.)

“No plan survives contact with the enemy.” He says, and the cadence that comes with the saying makes it sounds like it’s something he memorized. “Technology breaks, power nullifiers exist. You should never be without a way to protect yourself in an emergency.”

“Just curious— do you carry tinker stuff on you?” Pat _nods,_ and she nearly drops the water bottle. “ _Seriously?_ ”

“I have a number of discreet tools on me any time I go to class.” He informs her. “School shootings aren’t uncommon.”

And, well. She _really_ can’t argue with that.

They get back to work. Every number he shouts corresponds with a different attack, and she’s been shown the correct move to deflect it away— it’s really curious, how such little movements hold power, but Pat hasn’t steered her wrong— every punch only takes a little slap to knock off course. She still trips up with the footwork, but he’s patient and clear with directions, and they do more than a few repetitions where she gets it. They make sure never to truly exhaust themselves, but both of them eventually work up a light sweat.

“Alright.” He says, after she’s long since lost track of how many times they’ve done it. “You’ve started to get the hang of it. Before we call a quits and hit the showers and kitchen, I wanna do a few disarms.” He goes over, and picks up a gun— unloaded, of course, and unable to fire regardless. He’d been pretty explicit about what would happen if you tried to fire a blank at close range, and, well. Yikes.

This one is a lot harder than the others— it’s a specific move to pull off, from multiple angles, and unlike the other one, this one needs to be done _fast._ The rule is, if Pat can pull the trigger, they do it again. And again and again and again, until finally she pops her hand out, ducks her head and twists the gun out of his hand, and she’s done it!

“Well done.” His smiles are rare, but they’re warm and it’s always a pleasant sight. “Now, disassemble it.”

“I mean, I could just shoot the guy, right?” And the last syllable almost doesn’t make it out, because Pat’s face closed off faster than someone hitting a lightswitch, smile dying like snow in summer. “Ah, that was a—”

“Do you know what model gun you’re holding?” It’s a question, but Pat’s tone is so tightly controlled she’s _sure_ she’s fucked up somehow. And…

“Uh. Well, of course no—”

“It’s a Beretta 92FS,” He rattles off, eyes cold and flinty emeralds. “It holds ten rounds, and has an effective range of fifty meters. Nine millimetre size means that you can place your shots specifically where you want to hit your target and do minimal collateral damage. It can— ”

“Pat, I don’t need a lecture on gun safety.” She interrupts, doing her best not to snap. “I’ve been a cape for a few months, I’ve been shot at, I’ve _seen_ people get shot. Christ, I’m not a baby. Don’t treat me like one.” She’d seen (men and women screaming as the guns went _pop pop pop,_ glass shattering and crimson painting the street) shit. She’d _had_ shit (she can still feel it, the weight on her back, crushing air) happen to her.

He’s quiet for a moment at that, clearly gathering himself up after that outburst, and with deep breath, he picks up one of his little throwing wings off of the counter. “What is this?” He asks again.

“A tinkertech tool?” She hazards.

“Precisely. It’s a _tool_. Multi-purpose. I can use this to disarm, to disorient, to subdue, to save, and so on. It saves lives without taking them. That’s how it’s designed.” He sets it back down, and any trace of anger melts away and is replaced by something far more deeper. “Guns are a killing tool. They’re designed for that purpose and that purpose only. They’re not used to disarm or to disorient or subdue or save. They’re designed to _end_ another human being in the most painful way possible. If you point a gun at someone, you’re not trying to knock them down or lightly injure them. You’re shooting to kill.” He takes another deep breath. “So when you pick up a gun, you disassemble it. Right there. Because they can always pick them back up.” A hand runs across his face, and the shadows paint pictures on his skin of a scene that Ange can almost see playing out in his eyes.

“...Pat?” She asks, after the silence stretches out for an uncomfortably long moment. He starts back to the real world and flinches.

“I’m sorry, Ange.” he says, his voice very soft, now. “I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have gotten upset. I just—” He swallows. “I don’t like guns.”

“No guns. Got it.” Ange has more than a few guesses as to _why_ (because it wasn’t like he didn’t wear his pain on his sleeve and didn’t have any photos in his house), but he deserves better than for her to speculate. “So,” she asks, doing her best to resuscitate the mood, “shower and dinner?”

He gives her a recovering smile. “Shower and dinner sounds good.” And then he’s up and moving and gone, and she still feels like she’s broached something she can’t take back. She tries to rinse off the anger and regret, but it just gets tangled up in her throat.

That night, if she’s a _little_ too hard on the gang members they run across, well. Pat doesn’t say anything. And neither does she.

* * *

Before she goes to sleep, Ange makes a list. There are not many lists like it.

  * Learn more about guns
  * Get pat more friends
  * Ask annette out once out of college
  * Save brockton bay
  * Be happy



It’s a good list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good luck with that, Ange.


	6. a blanket made from sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pat's having a bad day.

Pat’s having a bad day.

He feels it as soon as he wakes up, like icy water inside his skull, drowning synapses and nerve centers alike with thoughts as dark as ocean depths. The rest of the world can’t make it in.

There’s a lump in his throat and a stone in his gut, and he wonders for a moment if he has the strength to get out of bed.

He does. There’s always a little more to give.

What makes it all the worst is that there’s no _reason_ to be having a bad day, because nothing even bad has happened yet. No one died last night, he stopped the bleeding, the family would survive. Didn’t even get that injured, and the stitches were so small that he wouldn’t even have to bleach his undershirt again.

But he’s having a bad day all the same.

It doesn’t make any sense. (Maybe she was right. Maybe there really is something wrong with him and he should have just let her burn all of his impurities away.) He drags himself to class more out of routine than conscious instinct, head still feeling like he’d gone a few rounds with Victor again. His skin feels tight and stretched over his skeleton, like a rubber band ready to snap (knuckles impacting on his jaw, ice packs pressing too hard against his face). Too many scars, too many mistakes. He sits down in class, takes out the notebook, and just...lets the words flow in and out without ever touching his brain. It’s easier that way. He doesn’t wanna think right now. He doesn’t think he _can_ think. But he’s _thinking_ that so clearly he’s just being a baby again.

The kid had screamed last night. So loud. He can still hear it, just outside of the room. Screaming because he couldn’t get there in time to stop the lunatic from opening up his mother’s throat like a beer can, red spraying all over the walls.

He’s supposed to be a hero.

Why does it always end with blood?

“Pat?”

Someone’s talking to him. Ange. She’s looking at him like he’s done something wrong. He stares at her clothes, eyes naturally drawn to the way the fabric folds and ripples, and his power draws information from it, informing him that she’d been staring at him for nearly the entire class. Has he done something wrong? He must have. What was the fuck up this time? _What did you do wrong? Show me._

“What?” His voice isn’t supposed to sound like that. He’s supposed to sound sure of himself, _never show weakness, even when you’re off-balance. In the field, Failure is death._

“Uh. Class is over now.”

...So it is. Everyone else has already left, and he swiftly moves to join them.

“So! What’s on the agenda today. Boss?”

He doesn’t know, but he can’t admit that.

“Patrol. Continue working on mapping bases of operation and other usual routines.”

“Uh-huh. Anything else?”

He could work on the suits, he guesses. Or maybe give her some more self-defense lessons.

“Well, I was kind of asking about if you were ever gonna do some R&R.” Oh. He’d said that out loud. Whoops.

“Resting and Relaxation?” He supposes he could give the knife wound some time to heal. Maybe do some more digging into Katie’s… case (jack and jill went down the hill.) Or any of the other cold cases in Brockton Bay. Some good old-fashioned detective work that wouldn’t aggravate the wound. But the idea of standing still causes his skin to itch, spiders skittering underneath his nerves. He’s filled with a jittery energy. He doesn’t want to (be alone) rest for hours on end. The strange beast that’s inhabiting his body snarls and shivers at the thought, filling him with a crimson-colored _want._ He wants to hit (himself) something. He wants to _hurt_ (himself) something. To feel visceral pleasure of something giving way beneath his fist and know that he has stopped it from hurting anyone else.

He wants to do something that won’t make him feel like this anymore.

Ange takes his hand, and he’s free.

“Well, Mr. Tall and Broody, I have just the cure for your problems.” And before he can even utter the words _I doubt that,_ she begins pulling him, and he lets her, because sometimes it’s just easier to let someone else take the reins.

She takes him all the way to her car, and then they’re going through the city, and he takes a moment to absorb Brockton Bay in the light, because it’s a rare sight. He’s so used to seeing it defined by flickering street lamps and the glare of headlights that sunlight seems to reinvent it. In the waking hours it’s easier to forget about the monsters (but you never forget. Never, ever, ever, because they live in a world of spiteful gods, and if they don’t perform the rituals and scurry at the sight they could bring the wrath of hell upon them all.) They arrive at a little apartment, and Ange drags him in, sits him down on the couch, and clicks on the tv.

“Watch.” She orders, and he obeys because he knows how to follow one, and then there’s a blanket over his shoulders (one she’d had for a long time, memories woven into the cloth, childhood winters and pillow forts), and…

He’s warm. He sinks into the couch, and slowly, the painful stiffness begins to lessen. He hadn’t even noticed how uncomfortable he’d been until now. Whatever’s on the tv— he really has no idea, he doesn’t watch much— is just entertaining enough to be a pleasant white noise. Ange’s doing...something, in the kitchen, the sound of soft sizzling making it’s way over to him, and the sunlight is caressing his face, chasing away the shadows and he feels…

* * *

He wakes up slowly. He— he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Ange’s couch was way too comfortable. He tries to get up, and finds that the blanket had been wrapped around him, tucked in between the cushions. He hasn’t been tucked in like this since… well. Since.

“Rise and shine, bird boy!” Ange chirps from the kitchen, and he looks over to see plates with burgers and fries and milkshakes. “So you passed the fuck out and luckily missed my attempt at making burgers, so I just went and got Fugly Bob’s.”

“Bird boy?” He asks, trying not to be worried that he’d been so completely out of it that he hadn’t heard the door open, let alone the car start.

“I don’t judge but I will tease.” She informs him. “Come on, dig in.”

He slowly gets up, marveling at doing the moment without any lingering pain, and joins her for a late lunch. Vanilla dances across his tongue, and he doesn’t cry but he does smile, because he’s managed to somehow make a friend after all. Would you look at that?

“So if I’m bird boy, does that make you pigeon girl?”

Ange squawks in indignation, choking on a fry, and maybe this isn’t such a bad day after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What halcyon days.


	7. Dialing Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ange has a day to herself.

“I mean, I just don’t know, you know?” She backhands one of the Teeth’s members through the window. “I mean, her and me? It’d be awesome, but even after it’s, you know, _okay,_ would it still be awkward?”

“ _Guardian.”_ Pa- _Valravn_ huffs over the comms, clearly working. “ _I don’t think this is the right time to discuss this.”_

“What? It’s not like I’m in any danger.” She picks up another guy who was for some reason trying to knife her even thought the bullet bounced off, and gives him a _look_. He stops struggling and accepts the zip ties.

“ _It’s the principle of the thing.”_

There’s a half-formed joke about principles having a different appeal than professors in the back of her mind, but she can’t make it work. She finishes tying up the Butcher’s goons in silence and then takes to the air.

“What are you doing on your end, anyway?”

“ _I’m— tying— someone— up.”_ Grunts puncate each word.

“Zip ties aren’t that hard to use.”

“ _Upside down.”_ He clarifies. “ _Over the side of a roof.”_

“...why, exactly?”

“ _The blood rushes to the head. It’s quite painful.”_ He informs her in a tone that’s not quite cheerful but close enough to send a shiver down her spine. “ _And because he’s got some information I need. I’ll let him stew for a few minutes.”_ Ange doesn’t respond to that. She’d very quickly decided that she didn’t want to present for Valravn’s...questioning. She didn’t feel a scrap of pity for whoever he had in his grip, but all the same, she… just didn’t want to be there when it happened (because she wanted desperately to know who _taught_ him all of the ways you could terrify someone into talking, how best to break into a building, how you could break someone’s fingers so easily.)

“ _Anyway,”_ he continues after a brief pause. “ _I suppose you could get on her good side by beating up her ex?”_

“Her _what?!”_

“ _You didn’t know?”_ Behind the voice modulator, there’s a low tone of amusement. “ _I thought you would have tried to learn everything about her.”_

“I’m not a stalker— like _you,_ apparently. How did you learn?”

“ _Guardian, we’re friends.”_ Beneath her mask, she grins. Two months of human contact had really done him wonders. “ _Did you think I wouldn’t perform a thorough background check on the lady of your affections?”_

“You’re the weirdest wingman ever. Spill.”

“ _Well, as far as I can tell, there was a man at some point, due to the kid.”_

“She’s got—”

“ _Yes, she has a kid. Name’s Taylor. Anyway, due to the lack of a ring and the fact that every photo involving the man was deleted, it’s pretty clear that they were together, had a kid, and then the guy took off. So she’s been a single mom for a while now, and if she’s dating again, it’s not being put online._ ” Wow, that… really fucking _sucked._ No wonder Annette looked so tired all of the time.

“What an asshole. Also, I don’t believe that you don’t have his name.”

“ _I’ll keep that to myself for now. Just in case.”_

“Wow, don’t trust me?”

_“When we captured Victor the other week you dabbed over his unconscious body for the entire world to see. You’ll never be seen as intimidating again.”_

“It was funny!”

“ _It was ridiculous.”_

“You're such a wet blanket. Didn’t even stick around to pose with me. You gotta fear of cameras?”

“ _I have a reputation to uphold.”_

“Of being a wet blanket.”

“ _And being your straight man, apparently.”_

 _“_ Wouldn’t my ace up the sleeve be more accurate?”

“ _Ha-ha. Oh, he’s starting to wake up. Gotta go.”_ The call clicks off, and now she’s flying through the air by herself again.

Annette had an _ex._ She had a _kid._ She probably never wanted to date _again_ after that, and who could blame her?

Did Ange have any chance at all?

The night sky offered no answers.

* * *

The days roll around each other, light chasing dark until it’s an evening where she’s alone, and the silence in her small apartment has become a monster Ange can’t kill with music, so she puts it up to an act of god that her phone begins buzzing with a number she knows.

“ _Hey, Angie!”_ A smile stretches wide as the familiar chirp comes through, bright and clear.

“Hey, Alys. What’s the occasion?”

“ _What, I need a reason to call?”_ Her best friend sniffs in faux-offence. “ _I guess I’ll just hang up and call back at your birthday.”_

“I mean, normally when you call it’s either some kind of event or you need me to pay bail.”

“ _Rude! I’ve never even been to jail.”_

“I’ve bailed you out of the jail known as yourself.” Oooh, yes. She should write that down. Maybe she could use that.

“ _Where did_ that _come from? You’re not poetic.”_

 _“_ I’m _perfectly_ poetic.” Ange protests. A snort accompanied by static buzzes out of her phone’s speakers. “ _You wrote a crush a letter and you couldn’t even get the rhyme scheme right.”_

“I was like...eleven! And I’ve been hanging out with a lit major, it’s not my fault. He has like. Speeches prepared.”

“ _Oh? Have I been replaced?”_

“You could never be replaced, Alys.” Shallow pools that still seem too deep, and pillow forts and climbing trees to try and hold the birds. Sleepovers and hushed secrets, early morning confessions and bedheads that could be nests.

“ _Awwww. Seriously though, what’s been happening over there?”_

And there’s _so much_ Ange wants to tell her. About everything. About the burning and the blaze, the monsters and the mayhem. About how she’s stared down the barrels of guns and broke the hands that held them, about how she’s been hit hard enough to collapse buildings, about how she got back up and kept on fighting, about every nightmare that’s plagued her since she put on a costume and tried to _do_ something. She wants Alys to be _proud_ of her, to tell her that she’s doing a good job, to tell her that (she’s not a monster she’s not like _her_ she’s not she’s not she’s _not)_ she’s made a difference. But the smarter part (the cowardly part) of her always rises up and squeezes her throat, flooding her brain with fears of tears and silence and a phone that never rings, messages never read, a smile never seen nor heard.

She’s too afraid to lose the best thing she’s ever had.

So she lies with her leaden tongue and talks about the parts of her life that aren’t really important at all. And if she feels as if rot and sewage is threatening to overflow her insides, she switches the topic and lets the sound of her oldest friend chase away the guilt and shame until it’s been locked up and buried under memories and anecdotes, and she feels like a person again.

* * *

Pat’s nowhere to be seen today (she’s not worried, and if she keeps telling herself that it’ll be true) so when she’s finally freed from classes and her texts go unanswered, she decides to spend her hours before patrol simply exploring Brockton. She’s only lived here for a few years, and part of her is still trying to find the magic that she sees when she looks down upon the city from on high down on earth.

So she drifts through the downtown area, dipping into stores not out of a desire to buy anything but simply to exist among and not alongside the people of the Bay. She dips into coffee shops and chats up the baristas, swallowing mochas and lattes alike. She ghosts into bookstores and tries to pick out titles she thinks Annette or Alys would like, and spends an hour or two perusing through shelves and picking out books, looking for the right words to ignite her soul and whisk her somewhere else. She doesn't find them, and moves onto stores, glancing at things she can’t afford but would love to have, and daydreaming about being a billionaire.

Eventually she moves on from the stores and continues heading downtown, and for a moment she forgets who she is and what city streets she’s strolling until reality makes itself known in the form of two boys, shockingly blonde hair and bright blue eyes, sneering at her and flashing Empire colors on the insides of their jackets.

And she _wants_ to let flames roll off of her skin, to become something more than a girl walking down the sidewalk and let them know _exactly_ who they were threatening and send them running back home to mommy and daddy (or simply beating them till they were trying to plead with missing teeth). But she _can’t_ because that would be the beginning of the end, so instead she settles for burning on the inside as she turns around and walks away, and after making sure she’s not being followed, makes a beeline for home.

* * *

She’s back in the skyline of Brockton once more (and _still_ nothing from Pat, but he can more than take care of himself and so can she), letting her feet almost drag over the rooftops. The telltale _pop_ of gunfire has her swooping down, and she’s landing hard on the ground, prompting screams from the gangbangers, who… were shooting at her. With their little peashooter guns that she could barely even feel as they fell against her forcefield.

Did word not travel as fast? Why was this still a thing?

She makes quick work of the hooligans (because really, if she couldn't by now she should just quit) attempting to rob the store, and as always, she goes in to make sure that the cashier was okay. Because you really had to, and Ange knows that from the horrid experience of waiting for the cops and them one of them dragging out a dead body, because they’d shot the woman by the time she showed up and if she had bothered to look inside the store maybe could have saved her life.

So she walks in, tone happy and bright (and her clothes free of blood, that was important), and chirps, “Hey, you okay in there?”

A middle-aged man pops up from behind the counter, visibly relieved.

“Yes, I’m—” His words stumble as his eyes rivet to her wings, and the fear comes back. “I’m, uh. Fine. Thank you.” He doesn’t leave the counter, so Ange leaves the store before she can say anything.

She’s not the Simurgh. Her power just— just _did_ that. It’s not her fault. She’s not the Simurgh.

She’s not a monster (right? She only hurts bad people. _Horrible_ people. That doesn’t make a monster. Even if sometimes she had nightmares about feeling bones break underneath her fists because she swung too wide and hit someone else, that doesn’t mean she’s a bad person.)

The cashier waves her off, and she waits until she hears the sirens before taking off, and she flies up fast enough until she feels the wind tearing against her body, and maybe if she keeps going, it’ll scrape away the fury mixed with shame.

She flies around for a few minutes before something pops up on the HUD that Pat installed into her helmet (and he couldn’t convince her he hadn’t played a video game in his life because this was some shit straight out of a video game). It takes her a second to remember how to expand the alert, and then a minute to actually believe it.

Someone’s robbing Brockton Central Bank.

... _seriously?_

Her disbelief nearly sends her to the pavement. _No one_ robs banks anymore. The way Brockton’s police stations and PRT patrol routes were set up, no unit was ever more than 10 minutes from the bank. It was also a stationary target, meaning you couldn’t stay mobile and you could get surrounded easily. In all, high risk for probably not that high reward.

She lands in front of the bank, and then the doors blow open in a burst of smoke and splinters, and she readies herself to fight, bringing her sword into existence. Out of the smoke emerges a man, who’s—

“You’re _kidding,_ right?”

The man in the stylish lab coat and cyber-demon half-mask thing (which was honestly pretty fucking cool) grinned at her, the expression full of ego and bravado, the posterboard face for a madman.

“No!” And then he sped away on rocket-powered rollerblades, holding duffel bags full of money in both hands.

...Okay. Maybe cape life didn’t suck after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brockton is kind of a horrible place to live.


	8. a city painted with copper and glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night is Valravn's domain.

He’s so tired of the cape getting stuck on shit.

It’s an essential piece of his arsenal: for gliding, for intimidation, for stealth, for protection. He has methods of ensuring it won’t get in his way during a fight (this version anyway. The ones before that feature got added had nearly gotten him severely injured.) And frankly...it makes him feel cool.

But it’s just really embarrassing when one of the tail ends of the cape snags on a doorway or something. The material is strong and a tug usually frees it, but still. (He’s already drawing up designs for a cape that would be far shorter, but still allow for gliding. He never really stops drawing up designs, really.) But the cape’s ability to go rigid and provide a bulletproof weave has already proven to be a help in protecting civilians, so he’s keeping it for now.

And besides.

He jumps off of the rooftop, sailing away.

Without it, he wouldn't quite feel the same.

* * *

Tonight, he’s patrolling awfully close to the Dead Zone, which is why he neglected to meet up with Ange tonight— she was a boon and a— friend (He hadn’t had a _real_ friend, someone he knew for reasons other than classwork or necessity in years. His dad hadn’t exactly encouraged attachments. Said they were dangerous.) But his other line of work, tracking down murders, requires one to be comfortable with corpses and a degree of subtlety she didn’t quite possess yet. Her powers were designed for shock and awe, and she was _effective_ at that. Not to say she wasn’t intelligent— one didn’t major in engineering without being so— but when it came to moving unseeing, having powers that made you glow weren’t really ideal.

So he doesn’t call her. And that’s definitely not because he’s overwhelmed or because he doesn’t know how to tell her that he doesn’t want her to come along because what they have still feels so _fragile._ (He’s also definitely not afraid that Ange will see the things he does to people and confirm all the things he’s afraid about.)

So he doesn’t call.

It’s easier that way.

Tonight, he’s looking for a woman by the name of Andrea Hills, who had recently been inducted into the Teeth by way of their classic initiation: murder. The Butcher was a believer in martial strength— as such, guns and other weapons weren’t permitted to be used in initiation. You had to do it by hand. Which, fortunately, left lots of DNA evidence that someone could find. Now, it was simply a matter of tracing purchases and last known locations— and victims. Namely, a police officer and his family. As complicated as his relationship with the police was, he wasn’t going to let a murder go unavenged.

Of course, that was before he heard the sound of screams and shattered glass, and he diverts his route only to find he’s too late once more. There’s already a body, slowly pooling crimson onto the sidewalk. And around the woman, men and women wearing the colors of the Teeth. A cape stood watch over them— Hemmorhagia. One of the Butcher’s lieutenants, a striker capable of manipulating blood and using it as weapons. He’s never fought her before, but he’s seen her handiwork, studied the files and the footage.

But even if he hadn’t, he’d be jumping down to fight anyway.

_A Valravn is a creature of magic, son._

His opening move is to throw his Wings, flashing as they slice through the night air to find heads. Smoke bombs rolls onto the ground, and he begins taking down numbers as fast as possible— he needs to reduce the size of the enemy, before they could use that to their advantage. Sadly, Hemmorhagia manages to clear the smoke— as do at least five others before he can knock them down and tag them with a fast acting strain of anesthesia that he’d developed for this very purpose. After all, head injuries could be fatal if he under-estimates his strength and _over_ estimates their skulls.

_It’s a lost soul turned into a raven, looking for redemption._

Valravn takes a step to the left to dodge the blade of blood as Hemmorhagia swipes at him, the movement telegraphed from a year away. A quick glance at her costume informs him that she’s competent with the weapon, but her spacing’s shit. He grabs the escrima sticks he has stored on his back, brings them up and out to strike her sword wrist and jab at her face, the steel colliding with her bone mask (it feels like plastic, thankfully. The Butcher herself uses the real thing.). She howls in pain, spinning with the force of his blow, the blood blade decoagulating and turning liquid, reforming into a wicked looking axe. She completes her spin and swings blisteringly fast, looking to bisect him in two. In response, he leaps into the air, watching the axe head glide past his feet, one of which he brings up in a kick that lands squarely in her face. She staggers back, spitting curses. He would have continued the assault, but the multiple Teeth members closing in behind him requires his attention.

He lands and twists hard, avoiding the knife jab. Barely a flick knocks the switchblade out of the thug’s grip, and smashing his elbow into the other man’s nose sends him stumbling back into his friend, and a kick to the chest knocks them both to the ground. Valravn tags both of them with sleeping darts before feeling a slight pull on his cape.

Under his mask, he smiles.

_And it finds it when it consumes the heart of a child who fell on the battlefield._

And allows it to unbuckle from his back, going rigid and flinging itself into his attacker’s face. He dashes behind him, twisting and pulling and using his cape as makeshift rope to heave the murderer into a wall. A mighty _thud,_ and the man slumps to the ground. Darted and out. He doesn’t have time to reattach his cape before another gangster comes at him with a considerably larger knife (where _do_ they keep getting those), and this one’s smart enough to try and cut, not stab, so instead of knocking it out of the man’s hands, he simply tosses his own weapons into the air, grabs his attacker’s arm, breaks his elbow and then catches his sticks to deliver a clean blow to the jaw and jab to the temple, and that one is down and out.

He turns to see a fist rapidly approaching his face. He takes the blow, his helmet more than absorbing the impact. He pretends to be hurt, faux-staggering and then whipping around with the new found momentum to slam his escrima stick into the back of the man’s neck. He falls.

_With the blood, the raven is reborn— transformed._

He turns back to Hemmorhagia, who has— _stabbed_ one of her friends in order to get enough blood to form a spear to go with her axe.

“I,” she promises, raising the weapon at him with a horrible _ripping_ sound as she tears the bodily fluid out from the corpse (and that’s on him, he’d knocked the man out that death is _his fault,)_ “am going to make this hurt. So. Much.” Behind her mask, the eyes burn with a very human desire to destroy. “Going to rip you up the middle and tear your beating heart out of your chest.”

“ _You’re welcome to try.”_ He offers.

She lunges. He activates the tasers in his escrima sticks and parries the blow.

Blood is ninety-seven percent water.

_Into a knight, clad with armor and weapons._

She screams as the electricity travels through her body, and then she’s down and out with the smell of burnt flesh and copper filling the air. He allows himself a moment to catch his breath (fatality. There’s a fatality and that’s solidly on him. He’s still too slow, he should have prioritized the cape,) before he begins with the zip ties and makes a call to the PRT hotline. By now, they know him by voice. He waits until he hears the approach of the vans before leaving, on the trail of a killer once more.

_But it doesn’t leave it’s wings behind._

_And you’ll fly so high, son._

* * *

In the end, he finds Andrea holed up in an abandoned complex on the outskirts of the dead zone, and he drags her and her _roommates_ out with only a few bruises. For being in a gang that was all about violence, they were rather bad at it.

To his surprise, it’s not just another van full of PRT officers that responds to his second call that night— they’re accompanied by an actual member of the Brockton Bay Protectorate.

As a fellow tinker, Valravn both admires and envies Armsmaster’s power armor— the fact that something like it is _just_ outside of his reach made it all the worse. Valrvan could build suits with more tech installed and protective paneling, but managing the weight and the power had consistently proven an issue, and he has a hard limit to his storage capacity. As for the hero himself, Valravn has mostly gotten over the fact that the blue-colored tinker had assumed he was a villain the first time they met. Honestly, whenever they _do_ send someone to confront him, he prefers Armsmaster. Miss Militia is a bit too straight-laced for his tastes, and Velocity a touch too eager to get him into the Wards. And when they send a Ward, he always gets the recruitment speech. Battery needed to get better about giving them— she was captain, after all.

“Valravn.” The stubbled chin nods, mouth set in a resolute line.

“ _Armsmaster.”_ He responds, unsure of where this is going. “ _I have a present for you.”_

“Hm. Already secured?” Valravn nods (of course he secured them, he’s not an amature) and gestures behind him. “ _They’re in the building over there.”_ The officers begin moving swiftly towards the location, and Armsmaster stays behind.

“Heard you picked up Hemmorhagia this evening.” He says slowly, and _now_ Valravn has an inkling of why they sent their top dog to meet him. “We were...concerned.”

“ _Because the Butcher has a habit of making examples out of capes like me.I’m aware of the risks.”_ He’s also aware that capturing one of the Butcher’s lieutenants would look _very_ good for the PRT. A win-win, to them. He continued living and helping, and the machine continued to appear functioning. And...if it was anyone else, he’d tell them to take the deal. But…

“Just wanted to extend the offer for us to take the heat for it.” Armsmaster assures, and it even sounds genuine. How nice. “Frankly, I think you should join us and get a medal for your efforts. You and that other cape have been doing good work, and we appreciate all the help we can get. But—”

“ _We both know I’m more effective not being a part of the Protectorate.”_ Valravn cuts in. “ _Your team isn’t fond of how I operate.”_

“The broken bones and missing teeth don’t paint a good image of you.” The man states, tone curt.

_“I’m not interested in a good image.”_

“I’m obligated to remind you that you’re walking a tightrope. You slip, and we’ll be forced to take action.”

“ _I assure you, Armsmaster. I have good balance. As for your offer…”_ Valravn looks to Patrick for a good way to word this. “ _As long as the Butcher is gunning for me, she won't be gunning for anyone else. So… it’s fine.”_

Armsmaster doesn’t say anything to that. After a few moments, he just nods stoically and escorts the returning officers back to the van, and they speed away to find a jail cell.

Valravn thinks for a moment. The Butcher, after him. A few months ago, he wouldn't have cared. It wasn’t like there was anyone around to get hurt in the crossfire. That had been the whole point behind his lack of socialization. No one to get caught up in his private carnage.

But that isn’t true anymore, is it? He has a friend, now. A _partner._ He’d be...missed.

What is he supposed to do about that?

He flies away into the night, looking for answers, but sunrise comes and all he finds is the whispers of something stirring in the underworld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Pat. You gotta friend now. What are you gonna do about it?


	9. A Night To Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May I have this dance?

Ange’s wearing a dress that cost more than her apartment several times over, and that’s not even the biggest concern on her mind right now.

“So you’re _sure_ someone is gunning for the mayor?” She asks, adjusting her bangles.

“Considering that I had my informant dangling off of the side of a building for six hours last night, I’m fairly sure he was telling the truth. I alerted the PRT, but they’re not exactly fond of me at the moment, so we’re going in ourselves.” Pat says, tugging on his cufflinks. Ange deliberately avoids picturing that (and of course, it’s like trying not to think about pink elephants) and instead focuses on the less disturbing question.

“Who’s after him?”

“Not sure. Couldn’t get a name out of him before he passed out, but there’s been a hell of a lot more drugs on the streets, and the amount of kidnappings has risen dramatically in the last year. All signs point towards someone running a human trafficking ring out of Brockton. Given that the Teeth and the Court don’t bother and the Empire has...well, specific tastes, I think there’s a new player in Brockton trying to amass cash and a cliente behind the scenes. Taking out the Mayor would allow him to push both operations harder during the confusion and panic. And if he was _really_ smart, he’d have someone else lined up to take over who would allow his operations to take place and keep cops and capes alike from looking at them too closely.” Patrick scowls at that, face growing sharp and shadowed. “Of course, that’s assuming that the cops aren’t on the payroll already.”

“Do they even need to be on the payroll?” Ange mutters, tugging at the hem of her dress. Pat had especially made this for her, and despite his strenuous protests, she had been very insistent on having a slit design for her legs— not just in case she needed to run (or, more likely,) kick someone, but she would not look cheap in front of Brockton’s socialites, goddamn it. The modesty shorts were very nice, though. Good old Pat, always thinking practically.

Speaking of practical—

“So, do you just have places like this all around the city?” she asks, sweeping her arm in reference to the small apartment they were in, conveniently close to City Hall and full of all kinds of gadgets she’d been asked not to touch, a spartan looking bed and medical supplies scattered across the tiny space.

“I have a number of safe houses, yes. A lot of times, I need to quickly change in-and-out of costume, or returning home isn’t a viable option.” He gives her a small smile. “Remind me to tell you about a recon mission on the Teeth that went sideways.”

“How the hell do you _pay_ for all of this?” She mutters.

Patrick’s really, really good at not giving things away, when he’s on the job. Part of his weird freaky ninja shtick. So when Ange sees him still, even if just for a second, she knows she’s just walked over a landmine.

“My father...well, he doesn’t really look at my expenses.”

“Oh my god, you have a sugar daddy?” She can’t stop the instinctive wisecrack in an attempt to lighten the mood, and all it does is morph his face into something pained.

“ _Please_ don’t put it like that.” He pleads, reaching for another fancy gadget for him to disappear into his own admittedly sharp suit. Black on black is a hard look to pull off, but Pat made it look easy and stylish in his three-piece suit. “Let’s just say that we have an arrangement. He doesn’t ask why I have multiple apartments, I keep my promise to work for the company someday. It’s also thanks to him that we have invitations, so. We should count ourselves lucky.”

“Whatever you say, rich boy.”

“I’m not rich.” Patrick grumbles. “My father is. Trust me, there’s a difference. And if he knew half of the way I was spending his money, I’d be out on the street faster than you would believe.” He sighs, and slides in his ear piece. “We need to get moving. You ready?”

Ange tosses her hair back and checks the bangles. “Do I look like hell on wheels?”’

“Angelic, actually.” He offers a small grin, and she gasps in delight.

“A pun. I’ll make a functional human being of you yet.”

“Good luck with that,” he drawls, and then they’re stolling out of the safe house and onto the streets of Brockton Bay at night, towards the lights.

* * *

Despite Pat’s assurances, she can’t help but be tense as an arrow as they pass through security. Pat’s _loaded_ with all kinds of things that should set off the metal detectors, and her purse has a mask and collapsable armor in case Guardian needs to make an appearance, but the red light slides over her and she passes through the doors without so much as a third glance, as does Pat.

She forces herself not to sigh until they’re well out of the range of the guards.

“Told you.” He mutters, eyes already drifting across the lobby and onto the second floor. It’s fascinating to watch him work without the mask obscuring his face— his eyes weren’t _seeing_ the lobby and all of it’s generically ornate architecture and flourishes. No, he’s glancing at windows, mapping out escape routes and exits, noting cameras and blind spots.

“Look, I’ve been busted before. Can you blame me?”

“Yes.” Pat admits, not a hint of shame. “If you got caught, you failed to prepare.”

“I was high! And in highschool!”

“Doing an op high is failing to prepare.” He states, drier than a bored professor teaching in a hundred degree heat. “Now, start looking for our assassins.”

“Right.” Because that's something she knows how to do. Definitely. They wore suits or ninja hoods, right? That’s what all the cartoons said. Cartoons would never lie to her.

“Keep an eye out for janitorial staff.” Pat mutters. “Easiest disguise to use if you need to smuggle in gear. No one looks at you twice. If you can, check trash cans— another place to handle drop-offs of equipment. Look at the crowd. Is anyone blinking excessively?”

“Why blinking?”

“Contact lenses.” He murmurs. “Assassins need to not be recognized. Changing your eye color is one of the many methods you can disguise yourself. In which case, their eyes will be hurting. Look for the signs of anxiety— the high before a job. Tapping their wine glass, feet drumming. Sweat.” Patrick snags a wine glass from a waiter, and takes a composed sip before continuing. “And of course, be on the lookout for weapons. I’m sure I’m not the only person here hiding something beneath my suit.” Ange shakes her head in disbelief, half-heartedly sweeping the crowd and finding nothing.

“How do you know all of this stuff?” Where was her super-cool ninja teacher to instruct her on how to be a smooth operator?

Pat doesn’t answer. Ange turns to look at him, and he’s blinking in evident confusion.

“What the hell is _she_ doing here?” He asks...someone. God, maybe? Ange doesn’t know, and then tracks to where he’s looking and ooooooooh _fuck_.

Annette is here.

Annette is wearing a very nice dress.

Annette is here wearing a very nice dress and this is exactly the kind of situation Ange has been daydreaming about for months. She snatches the wine glass from Pat, downs all of it for courage (and the excuse of being drunk) and then marches over.

“I guess I’ll just look for the assassin by myself then.” Pat offers as she closes in on her professor.

“ _Hellloooo,_ Professor!” She chirps, and Annette looks at her rather like a deer looking at an oncoming car stunned, surprised, and afraid. The expression is schooled like— something, the metaphor isn’t important. What _is_ important is that Annette has been talking with another woman. And she was _pretty,_ too, fiery red hair and wickedly sharp blue eyes, looking at Ange as if she’s a baby bird that just smacked into the window.

“Ange!” Annette’s smile is screaming embarrassment with every stretch of her jaw. “How nice to see you here.”

“Same to you.” Ange keeps on grinning and sticks her hand out at the other woman. “Hi, I’m Ange, Professor Hebert’s _best_ student. You are?”

“Zoe Barnes,” the woman says, bemusement dripping from every syllable, talking her hand with a smile that’s somewhere between _cat-that-caught-the-canary_ and _shit-eating_. “I wasn’t aware Annette had a _best_ student. She doesn’t tell me about any of them.”

“It’d be unprofessional of me to discuss my students to someone who’s not a member of the faculty.” Annette protests, glancing at Ange and giving her a small smile. “Even if they’re my most _entertaining_ student.” Ange resists the urge to fist pump and somehow manages to grin even wider.

“Tell me, Ange. What’s Annette like in the classroom? I only see her when I drag her to things like this or when Emma and Taylor get together.” Zoe takes an elegant sip from her wine glass, black satin dress sparkling, the movement so smooth Ange’s almost tempted to copy it before she remembers she just downed her entire drink in one go (something she’s sure she’ll regret later.)

“Oh, she’s by far my favorite professor.” Ange reports, recognizing a kindred mischief-maker. “The others….” she trails off, thinking about consequences of shittalking about Annette’s faculty members in front of her. Zoe decides to laugh anyway, and thankfully provides her an out.

“I see.” Zoe leans in, giving her a hand and a faux-whisper, “Just between you and me, Annette doesn’t like the others either.”

“Zoe!” Annette starts a shriek and then reins it into a furious whisper as the other socialites turn to glance at her. “ _Ahem._ I hardly think we should discuss my issues with...other faculty members _in front of my student._ ” The elegant woman frowns and turns back to Ange. “Actually, how are you here? As I recall this was an invite-only gathering.”

“I’m Pat’s plus-one. He hates these things and brought me to see how fast we could get kicked out.” Annette’s head tilts at that, and her expression is something Ange can’t quite decipher. Hesitation, certainly, but something else lurks beneath the lines on her professor’s face.

“Are you two...together?” She hazards. It probably says something about Ange that her response is to laugh.

“ _God,_ no. Pat’s like…” She searches for the right word. What do you call the person who you trust to save your life? “Like a brother to me,” she finishes, and then gives Annette her best attempt at looking coy. “Besides,” Ange murmurs, intoxication on her breath, “he’s not really my type.”

Annette goes a little flushed, and this time Ange can’t help but giggle. “Well, I gotta make sure he’s not gotten himself into trouble. Bye, prof, Zoe!” She all but waltzes away.

“ _Had your fun?”_ Pat’s voice breaks over the coms.

“Yep. Also, I think I embarrassed her enough to get her to consider leaving.”

“ _Thought you would have asked for a dance.”_

“We’re sure that assssss _some-thing’s_ going to go down tonight.” She says, gliding past more people in gaudy suits, avoiding the a-word. “I don’t want either of them to stick around and get hurt.”

“ _Hm. Smart.”_

“You thought I was just fooling around, didn’t you?” She playfully accuses, even as she’s glancing at waistlines for weapons and eyes for erratic twitching.

“ _You have a way of surprising me.”_ Pat responds. “ _Second floor is clear of anything suspicious. Lots of dead spots with the cameras up here, though. Lots of places that would be ideal to take a shot from as well.”_

“You think it’s gonna be as simple as that?”

 _“If I was gonna do it, I’d want to create a panic downstairs to slow down any response and slip out a window. Gunshot would certainly do that.”_ Pat reports, and she’s not entirely sure how she feels about how confident he sounds about plotting the murder of the mayor. “ _Position a few actors downstairs to tie up any guards, maybe even as scapegoats for the hit. Have a guy waiting outside with a van. Clean getaway.”_

“Do you actually have a plan for this?" 

“ _You did ask.”_

“One of these days, you’re gonna tell me how you know all of this shit.” She mutters, making her way out of the main hall and into one of the glossy marble corridors, dark and empty.

 _“One of these days.”_ He echoes. Ange continues to plunge into the network of hallways leading to doors she’s afraid to try and move past for fear of cameras and alarms. The sharp _click_ of her heels echoing on the meaningless patterns sharply enough to force winces only raises her anxiety that somehow she’ll be _caught_ even if she has a bathroom explanation ready and waiting and a drunken Ange routine loaded. Fortunately, the only human she encounters as she stumbles down these darkened roads like the lead of a slasher film is a janitor, who gives her a polite smile and continues sweeping away at something, and she moves past him with a sigh of relief.

Wait. Hadn’t Pat said something about janitors?

No sooner than she thinks that, her ears just happen to pick up the soft _thump_ of something heavy being discarded in a garbage can. She slips behind the corner and listens to the soft _shiff-shiff_ of a broom more intensely than she’s ever listened to anything in her life. She stays in the dark until it’s drifted far, far away, and she goes back to the trash can, lifting the lid as quietly as possible, wrinkling her nose and forcing herself to reach down, finding a fast food wrapper that had no business being that heavy. She unwraps it, and—

“Um. Pat?” She’s never been one for nervous laughing, but it’s better than screaming. “Any idea how to defuse a bomb?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus begins Bones and Teeth's first official arc. This is where the real shit starts, kiddos.


	10. to paint a violet sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valravn crashes a party, but there's no fun to be had.

The first thing Pat does upon hearing the words is start stripping.

He finds a dead zone and immediately starts removing his suit jacket— which, of course, really isn’t a suit jacket. He twists it inside out, and now as he slips it back on, he’s wearing something far more bold, the emblem of Valravn painted dark purple on the leather, and he zips up the asymmetrical lining, pulls the snap buttons over. Reaches back, pulls out the collapsible hood, slips on the half mask.

And even as he lets the disguise of Pat fall, Valravn is talking to his partner.

“Tell me what it looks like.”

“ _It’s, uh. Brown. Kind of shaped like a console?”_ The joke actually brings relief— she’s not paraylized. Good. They need to move fast. He’d been imagining assassins or capes, not _bombs._ A bombing had a very different kind of mentality and message.

“Any exposed wiring or timer?”

 _“No.”_ She reports, and he dimly hears the sound of rusting. “ _It’s a solid block of explosives.”_

“It’s a remote denotation then. As soon as someone pushes a button, they’ll give a signal. Is there an off switch?”

“ _Is there supposed to be?”_

“No.” He rushes out. “If there is, it'd be a trap.”

“ _Oh. Thanks for telling me.”_

“Is there any indication over what kind of bomb it is?”

“ _I— I don’t think so.”_

“Okay.” He’s moving now, taking out cameras to make sure that no one sees that Patrick Dullhan disappears only for Valravn to show up conspicuously in the same area. Wouldn’t do to blow his identity. “I need you to change and then fly as high as you can.”

“ _What?”_

“We don’t know if the bomb’s dirty or not, so we can’t risk throwing it into the ocean. Fly as high as you possibly can and then throw it.”

“ _Right. Okay. Um. How much time do you think I have?”_

“I don’t know.” Valravn admits, as much as he despises saying it aloud. “So you need to hurry, Guardian. And you can’t let anyone see you leaving, or our triggerman might detonate it.”

“ _Okay. What are you going to do?”_

Valravn looks across the balcony and sees the other man, pulling up a bandanna bright red and emblazoned with stylized teeth— the insignia of the most dangerous gang in Brockton. Immediately, his brain begins assembling all of his assumptions and investigations, and he arrives at the fact that—

There’s no way that man is actually a member of the Teeth. They didn’t have the cohesion to pull off something like this, and killing a bunch of Brockton’s elite was hardly the Butcher’s MO. She only cared about killing people who could actually put up a fight; there was no glory to be found in killing people who hadn’t lifted anything heavier than a spoon. So, set up. Why? Who had the resources and the desire to make it look like the Teeth killed— oh _shit_ the mayor’s walking into his sight-line—

“I’m gonna crash the party.”

He runs and then he flies.

To the assassin’s credit, he sees the incoming threat and appropriately moves to shoot, but not before a Wing smashes into the gun and sends it skittering away, and Valravn lands on the other balcony, delivering a cross to the jaw with the resounding _snap_ of bone. Another swift blow to the gut comes, the legs are swept, and a skull clashes against solid marble. The marble wins. He doesn’t have any zip-ties, so he’s forced to take more permanent measures by breaking the man’s leg (and how the _crunch_ and the _snap_ of bone is a song he’s heard so often his own fractures barely even burn.)

When he doesn’t scream, Valravn is sure he’s unconscious. If the assassin wakes up, he won’t be able to cause any problems. He moves to disassemble the pistol, turning his attention back to the floors below.

Something’s changed. He can see men below scanning for him just as he’s scanning for them, as if they somehow knew, pulling up their own bandannas, the crowd reacting and swelling with anxiety. Heartrate sensors? The assassin didn’t have time to alert his friends. Did they have a thinker or a stranger on their side?

“Guardian. Status.”

“ _In costume, moving out through the back. Doing my best to avoid cameras. You?”_

“About to get everyone’s attention.”

He slides over and drops off the balcony.

Valravn lands on one suit’s shoulders and drives him to the ground, rolling with the momentum and coming up throwing a Wing, nailing the next in the eye, carrying forwards with his momentum to run, jump, scissor his legs around the man’s neck, _swing—_

Two on the ground, five to go. He fetches more Wings from his belt and lets them soar. His only advantages are speed, surprise, and chaos. If any of them get their bearings, he loses via hostage situation. Or, you know, getting gunned down. His reversible jacket was bullet- _resistant,_ not proof. If he took a direct, close range shot, he’d be dead.

The screams all blend into background noise as Valravn moves, hurling metal and limbs alike.

He manages to take four of the seven down before one of them manages to get a shot off. To his horror, the bullet goes wide, and he hears one of the still scrambling party-goers _scream,_ and that’s _his fault._

He lunges at the assassin, flicking a Wing into his eye, avoiding the bobbing pistol, smashing his fist into the man’s nose and relishing the burst of red. He plants a foot, kicks off into a jump flipping back and throwing—

Two more gunshots ring out, but they’re aborted, distorted, because he had managed to guess the timing right and land both of his projectiles squarely in the barrels of the guns, and now it’s two of the assassins who are screaming, the barrels of their guns having exploded rather nicely.

Valravn lands and rushes, jumping into another split kick, slamming booted feet into skulls and watching them go down.

The last man opts to run.

He doesn’t make it very far.

And then Valravn is off and running himself, out of the crowd and down a side corridor, spotting the back of Mayor Craig, a team of security guards around him. There’s a choice to be made: support them and risk any of them being plants, or take them all out and risk crossfire or the mayor refusing to trust him. He runs the numbers and decides that three men wouldn’t make much of a difference. He drops into a slide, throwing another wing and yanking another man off of his feet, rising to flip him onto the hard concrete, leaping over Mayor Craig to tackle the other security guard to the ground, downing him with two clean punches. He rises, satisfied that they’re down, and turns to the civilian.

All things considered, the man looked more tired than anything else, face sagging with the knowledge that tonight was not likely to get better, brown eyes leaning towards black, silver hair aging by the second.

“You’re—” The Mayor stops, looking at the emblem on his jacket. “I thought you had a different costume.”“My usual costume would stand out too much. With me, please.” He’d parked a van outside hours before, as close to the building as he could. If he could get the Mayor there, he’d be able to deliver him to the PRT, where he’d be safest.

The Mayor, surprisingly, follows (or not surprising. It’s not as if he’d given the man much of a choice.)

“I’d like an explanation as to why you just disabled two of my men...Valravn.”

“Couldn’t trust them. You’ve got lots of enemies, Mister Mayor, and they’re crawling out of the woodwork tonight. I didn’t want to take the chance that they were in on...whatever this is.” Mayor

Craig just sighs in response, taking the information in stride.

“Evidently. I didn’t think I’d done anything to piss off the Teeth but evidently I’ve managed to get the ire of the Butcher.”

“It’s not the Butcher.” Valravn says, peeking around a corner and listening for footsteps before urging him forwards. “If it is the Teeth, this isn’t being done by her command. She doesn’t give a damn about unpowered people unless they fit into her warped world view.”

“I’ve never bothered to examine the motives of psychopaths.” He sniffs. _Bold words for a man who’s got most of his police force invested with the Empire._

“She’s not a psychopath, Mister Mayor. Trust me. We’re almost to the back entrance.”

He almost doesn’t hear it. It’s a subtle shift in the air pressure, the tiniest _pop_ in his ears, all of his hair standing on end. In a move more instinct than conscious thought, he half turns.

The demon mask shrieks in silent delight as it’s blade bares down on the back of the mayor.

A desperate shove gets him out of the sword’s path and then there are no time for words, because the demon presses in on him with inhuman strength, robed in shadows and wielding twin short swords ( _These beauties are s_ _hort swords from the __Qing Dynasty._ his father shouts over the sound of steel shrieking against steel. _Small, versatile, and deadly. If you let them past your guard, they will cut you to ribbons.)_ In the lowlights of the hallway, they gleamed like fangs, flashing out to snap at his throat.

Valravn ducks, bobs and barely brings out his escrima sticks in time to block the sword, and he’s at an immediate disadvantage, because any bladelock will simply result in the assassin sliding his weapons down and slicing his fingers off. So he opts to smack away the sharpened edges of the swords, doing his best to remove the keen edge of the blades as fast as possible. The exchange begins, blunt instruments composing a song with the sharpened tools, staccato notes in 3/4th’s time, an improvised performance for two. The masked assassin (It was an _Oni_ mask, a symbol of protection from the spiritual world), quickly adjusts to his strategy, going for stabs instead of cuts, which is precisely what Valravn had _hoped_ he would do.

There is an infinitesimal moment in which any swordsman must draw his blade back after a failed strike, and once his arm goes past a certain extension, it loses sufficient power— and mobility. Having two swords made the critical second even smaller, but it was still— there!

As he pulls his left blade back, Valravn throws one of his escrima sticks. The assassin automatically reacts to the threat, smacking the weapon out of the air, and leaving himself open for Valravn to rush in, seize the retracted arm, spin his other stick in his hand and smash it against the man’s neck, strike the temple, buckle his knee, twist both of them to avoid a retaliation from the other arm, and slam him hard against the marble wall. He brings up his arm to deliver another blow, and—

It passes through the man’s skull like smoke, only shadows left behind. Valravn spins and throws himself to the side, obeying the screaming of his senses, and instead of being pierced through the heart, the blade only carves into his shoulder. He’s off balance, stumbling back, trying to defend against two swords with one instrument, taking another cut to the stomach, and his opponent’s leg lashes out, and he’s failing, seizing one sword arm and desperately blocking another, the other man pinning him with his weight as both swords bear down on his chest.

“ _Slow,_ ” the assassin growls, pushing down on him with ungodly strength, the blade inching closer and closer to Valravn’s beating heart. “ _And weak.”_ There’s only the barest hint of an accent, muffled by cloth and mask. “ _Just like your sister.”_

The world freezes.

_HeknowswhoiamheknowskateheknowswhokilledherheknowswhokilledherHEKILLEDHER—_

And then ignites.

He slams his knee up, right into the man’s groin, and take advantage of the unavoidable slackening of the muscles to heave and throw the man off, rolling away despite his shoulder burning at the movement, coming up already swinging to deflect the sword strike, diverting the next blade with his hand, smacking the flat away and bashing the mask with his remaining escrima stick, and aiming a kick as precisely as he could into the man’s kidney. The assassin stumbles back, wheezing. The mask had fractured under the blow, and Valravn can almost make out a glare of pure malice. He charges—

And goes through smoke.

The assassin is gone.

And in his wake, he has left Mayor Craig, bleeding out on the floor, a knife in his back. Valravn touches his stomach wound and his gloves come away crimson. He feels faint already, limbs loose and slack, weighed down. Even if he caught up with the assassin, he was in no condition to win.

“Fuck.” he mutters aloud, unable to find any other word. “ _Fuck!”_ He’d failed. Utterly, _utterly_ failed. Just like…

_Just like your sister._

He stumbles out the door, raising his hand to his ear. “Guardian, please tell me you’ve—”

There is a sound, next, It rips the world apart for him, as it has done so many times for so many lives. A dull, muffled _bang,_ a sound that has only ever signified death. And death follows, accompanied by an ear-splitting _boom,_ fire erupting in the sky, overriding deep blues with raging reds and outrages oranges, and then he sees guardian falling, falling, wings stripped away and smoke trailing from her form, crashing down to earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus it begins. Sorry this took so long! I've been really busy with setting up the fanzine and everything, but I'm happy this is finally over so we can get to the juicy stuff.


End file.
